


No Good Deed

by MeanderingMotivation



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: (sort of), Ambiguous Relationships, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Parent Ardyn Izunia, Poor Prompto Argentum
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-24
Updated: 2019-03-24
Packaged: 2019-11-29 09:30:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18221321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MeanderingMotivation/pseuds/MeanderingMotivation
Summary: When the idea of creating a child together is proposed, Ardyn intends for it to be solely beneficial to his scheme. He will not grow attached, even if said child will be the product of a man he had once considered a reluctant friend. Verstael had saved him, after all.If only fate were not so determined to punish him.





	No Good Deed

**Author's Note:**

> Since Episode Ardyn is less than a week away now (yay!) I thought I would post this. 
> 
> Something to keep in mind when reading: I wrote this PRIOR to Episode Ardyn Prologue being released, hence some of the details being a little off. I've been really busy but I wanted to publish this before the new DLC is released :)
> 
> I hope any readers enjoy!

 

* * *

 

 

 

Ardyn did not love, not anymore.

But when Verstael Besithia released him from his chains, and bestowed upon him the opportunity for revenge, he had felt something eerily, _disturbingly_ , similar. Perhaps not love. Perhaps he felt indebted. Here was a young, impassioned man, with blazing blue eyes, pledging to support him, determined to teach him the new ways of the modern era, and assist him in his vengeance.

It wasn’t love, but it was something twistedly close.

They never shared a particularly romantic or sentimental relationship, despite their easy candour. Verstael’s brain, even unpolished as it had been in his youth, had been a marvel to behold, and his unique perspectives had been of great amusement to Ardyn. His age, as well, had been a novelty, even as his body gradually matured, outstripping Ardyn’s own. His voice rasped, his hair greyed, and his mind, once so bright and dedicated to peace, became warped and obsessed with power. Was it due to Ardyn’s insidious influence? Perhaps. Nevertheless, he found it disappointing, even as he encouraged it, even as he prodded along some of the man’s most cruel, and inhumane, schemes.

The magitek movement, although ghastly, had been necessary for their success. How else could they combat the king and his blasted power, which he bequeathed so foolishly to undeserving men and women? When Ardyn had been a noble, it had been done with ceremony, an honour bestowed. Now any filthy, displaced rat could harness the power. It was a travesty.

Oh, how the world had changed, and not for the better.

But his vision would be realised. Total, all-encompassing darkness. A world in terror, ravaged by daemons, the Oracle and Lucis-Caelum line obliterated, cast into history.

Just like him.

And if Verstael, that young boy with so much promise, had to perish? Then so be it.

But then came the child.

The proposed theory of cloning Verstael’s DNA had been solely pragmatic. The man had been blessed with good genetics and a keen mind, an ideal combination for what the pair had been planning. It was a simpler process than using another, and cut out a lot of _ethical_ difficulties. Back then a conscience had still lingered in Verstael, small and flickering as it may have been. There was also a great deal of pride. Verstael would covet this child, this child who would become an unflinching weapon against their enemies. All with _his_ DNA.

Ardyn thought it a logical idea, at first. He’d remain detached, as always, and have little to do with rearing the creature, outside overseeing its tests and developments, that is. A visit a month to gauge its process, a trip outside a year to witness its improvement in combat. Years passed quickly, to him.

But Verstael had _saved him_. He’d helped heal his trauma, mentally and physically, and had stayed at his side for _months_ , throughout the flashbacks, and the light-sensitivity, and all of the self-loathing and suicidal ideation. Ardyn hadn’t wanted to live. What was the point of revenge, when all that he had adored had perished? He was no longer a blessed healer, dedicated to saving lives. He was just a shallow husk for the daemonic, languishing away in agony…

Theatrical, as always. Verstael had helped cure him of the depression. There’d been a light in him, then. His smile had been wry and welcoming, his words cheery and consoling. He’d been something resembling a friend. A companion, even.

His dependency on the man had waned as he gradually got better, but there was still a part of him (mostly buried by homicidal urges, mind you) that felt…as if he owed something back.

Verstael had given his life meaning, and when he’d rescued him from his dark, dank imprisonment, Ardyn had even mistaken him for an angel, come to end his suffering at last.

The child, cloned and birthed so unnaturally, had been an angel.

Tiny, delicate, pink and whimpering, a tuft of golden hair. His eyes had a faintly violet hue, a slight deviation from Verstael’s, but the resemblance to the man in his youth had been uncanny.

It was…enthralling. He quieted when his father held him, perhaps for one of the only times. There was a small flicker of something paternal in Verstael, before it was quashed by personal ambition. “A great success.” The man had said. “We will replicate it, with many more clones.”

“Perhaps so. However, we have yet to asses his cognitive and physical abilities. We mustn’t err on the side of hasty, should we, my dear friend? He is our first test subject, after all.”

“Hmph.” Verstael harrumphed, and placed the baby back into its confinement crib. He re-attached all of the wires he had momentarily removed, and grimaced at the baby’s crying. He wanted to be held, as all infants did.

Fascinating. It was practically human in emotion and desire, something Ardyn had not foreseen.

The nail on the metaphorical coffin came a moment later, when Verstael grumbled, off-handed, “Gods, I never thought I’d be co-parenting with an immortal heathen like you.”

_(“You’re not a monster, Ardyn. A great injustice was done to you, and you didn’t deserve it. Come now, you must **burn** with the desire to right those wrongs.”)_

They’d burned him, once, to see the reaction of his flesh. It had stripped away muscle and bone, his body had crumbled into ash, only to reform moments later. He’d wished for his execution to be successful every time. Every test had been agonisingly painful, tailored to extend his suffering.

He burned now, inside. With seething, inescapable hatred. He _loathed_ Verstael, and the man he had become. His purity had faded just as his beauty had, and now he was just another pawn for Ardyn to use and abuse, and _discard_ when the moment was right.

An immortal heathen, _a monster._

He didn’t need to be reminded of his current state. He was constantly aware.

And yet…

Co-parenting.

What a ridiculous, but similarly intriguing notion. Was that what they were doing, in some despicable, roundabout way?

If he had not already been betrothed, Ardyn may have had a child with a man like Verstael, once. Or another woman. He hadn’t been particularly discerning as a younger man, and gender had hardly been a restriction for a princeling like him. A woman would have birthed the child for them. She would have stayed in one of the finest rooms of the palace, waited on hand and foot by serving maidens. The baby would have suckled at her heavy breasts until weaning, and then removed. It sounded so cruel, in words, but the child would have bonded with him already, and the woman would have understood her duty, and bore it remarkably. It had been a great honour to surrogate for a would-be king (or queen) in those times, and volunteers would line the streets to petition for the job, and be rewarded handsomely for their service.

He’d healed countless infants in his time as a healer. He’d seen parents weep tears of joy when he saved them, or sob in despair when he reached their villages too late. His duty had been as rewarding as it was frustrating, but holding those babies, fully-recovered, had always imbued in him a great satisfaction. He’d liked children, as much as his brother found them tedious.

It seemed a universal joke, for him to have a child now. Certainly, his relation may not have been biological, but he’d been as responsible for its conception as Verstael. He truly was, in a sense, a father to this newborn. This newborn who was so unlike a daemonic robot…

Who _wasn’t_ a robot. Not yet. Time would change that.

_It’s not a waste,_ Ardyn berated himself, when he felt something stirring in the empty, scarred hollow that had formally been his heart. _He is not a real child, and **I am not a real father**. I doubt my seed could even impregnate a woman now, even if I tried. Who I am now… **incapable** of fatherhood. _

But Ardyn had never liked being called incapable, even by his own mind as it warred with itself.

Something broke through. Something remotely decent.

He didn’t raise the child, nor did he provide him a new home.

He secreted him away from the laboratory in the dead of night a few months later, when production was already underway on other specimens. They would meet their fate unopposed, manufactured with amendments in mind. They were stronger, and less human. The only sounds they could omit were screeches, and their eyes glowed red with the miasma that was being injected by fledgling scientists.

The original child, more delicate in constitution, was gradually being deemed a failure. His body was rejecting the miasma, and his capability for emotional responses outweighed the uncanny intelligence Verstael had expected. In everything but his unnatural beginnings, he was a normal child. He was due for decommission in the coming months, Ardyn was certain.

Only this one he would spare. This one who he had created, and felt _something_ for. This one who still managed to spare toothless smiles, and who reminded him so vividly of the past Verstael, who had saved him and given him new purpose.

Taking him was child’s-play. There was no need to worry of suspicion, not with his powers. Once upon a time Verstael might have been able to sense his discontent with the child, but now the mad scientist barely spared him a second glance. He was seen as a rabid, but effectively chained, mongrel. Nobody expected the heartless monster of a chancellor to save a child from death.

But he did. He handed him over to the first Lucian soldier he saw past the Niflheim border, disguised as a shaky scientist, and that was that.

It would be a lie to say he never thought of the child again.

He did, as the years went by, especially on the eve of the child’s conception. He’d wonder what had become of him, and if he’d grown up to resemble Verstael so heavily as he did as an infant. It was practically assured, considering he’d been cloned from the man’s DNA.

Still, he wondered. Had the new family dyed his golden hair to spare him from scorn? Had he _found_ a new family? A family that would adopt an abandoned child from the enemy empire? A family that would cherish and adore him, the way a ~~former king’s~~ child ought to be treated? Would he scream when Insomnia burned?

A distraction. An irksome distraction. He had been as kind as his blackened heart would allow, and he would not permit these thoughts to continue manifesting, and distract him from his goal. His revenge was so close to being realised, all of his pawns falling into place. It would all come to a head in a devastating blow, and the young Prince Noctis, _the light-bringer_ would fall to his sword, the same way the oracle would when the time blessedly came.

The Oracle. The next in line had yet to ascend her new role, but Ardyn had plans for Queen Sylva. The woman would only be a blight on his plans, and she needed to go.

She needed to _burn._

* * *

 

 

He should have known that his sole act of kindness in countless years would come back to haunt him.

He cursed the Astrals when it did, and the boy appeared before him twenty years later, resembling Verstael so fiercely that at first Ardyn feared he was hallucinating.

But those violet eyes were a dead giveaway. Ardyn would never forget that hue. ~~The colour of their son.~~ It triggered such an intense feeling of nostalgia, that the emotion almost caused him to falter in his act around the Chosen Prince. But he persevered, and left the foursome without a glance backwards, despite his brain screaming at him to take a closer look, to observe the child he had saved.

The child who was now aiding the prince in his doomed journey. Who stood by his side with such dedication, and who monopolised the power of kings to fight in his name.

The betrayal, though ultimately justifiable in the clueless boy’s case, was felt fiercely. It stung and it smarted, and Ardyn hadn’t felt anything so strongly (asides from his steady, unadulterated loathing for the Astrals and the royal family) in decades. The disbelief was overwhelming, and his face had oozed black, a dark, humourless laugh bubbling from his lips.

Of course.

Of course.

No good deed goes unpunished, not for The Accursed.

 

* * *

 

 

Travelling with the party affords him the ability to observe the boy further, although he’d scoured Lucian records the moment he’d returned to one of the bases, hit with an inescapable urge to understand what had happened to this ~~his~~ child. He’d learned all he could (which wasn’t much, the boy was unremarkable in almost everything, including his schooling records. Disappointingly, he hadn’t inherited Verstael’s intelligence) but watching his behaviour in person was far more illuminating.

He learned quickly that although at first glance Prompto Argentum may have appeared to be the weaker link (and combat wise he still had a ways to go, Ardyn knew) he was far more special than first assumed. For one, he served the unique purpose of keeping the spirits of the party light, and spent a large portion joking, and cheerfully assisting the others with whatever they needed. He was an obvious source of comfort for the prince, who considered the boy to be his best friend, and evidently enjoyed having someone about who was _unobligated_ to stay. Prompto was choosing to stand by him, even if it was trying at times, and that _did not_ go unappreciated.

The boy strove to do his best, in earnest, and had a good eye for photography. His talent was unmatched, and after taking a look at the boys camera (without permission, obviously) Ardyn was enthralled to realise he had been wrong in his first impression as well.

Prompto may not have had the sharp inquisitiveness of Verstael, or his liking for science, but he had certainly inherited the creative streak and passion, it was only expressed differently.

Perhaps not such a waste, even if his self-worth was lacking and he clearly had poor self-esteem. The boy hid his history like a dirty secret, and hid the barcode Verstael had emblazoned on his flesh with a thick wristband. He grew finicky whenever it was touched, and had outright paled when Ardyn had commented on it.

(“That is an interesting trinket you have there, Prompto. Did you per chance pick it up from one of the Lestallum markets? I’ve seen similarly designed accessories sold there.”)

(“That old thing? Prom never takes it off. He’s had it since I met him.”)

(“N-Noct-“)

(“Why are you so interested in him, anyway?”)

It had been a bold question, laced with accusation. Ardyn’s tendency to watch the blond had not gone unnoticed, and his preference to speak with him had made the other males uncomfortable. This had only worsened when Ardyn, in a fit of stupidity, had been unable to resist touching the boy’s chin, feeling for stubble, like Verstael had grown. The man had never grown much facial hair, a source of constant consternation. It seemed the boy had yet to fully develop…

Although he’d been merely curious (and admittedly, it had been hard to pull away, and not keep tracing the boy’s beautiful features) his actions had been misconstrued as ominous and vaguely creepy, and Prompto was kept away from him after that, nearly as heavily guarded as the prince himself.

The group, revoltingly, cared about one another. It was not just fealty that kept them bound to the prince, and each other. They were friends. They cared. They _loved._

Ardyn resented that, and he resented that Prompto had unknowingly sworn allegiance to his creator’s enemy. Was this the way the boy repaid him, for his leniency? For his mercy?

It was illogical to blame the boy, he knew, but the daemons in him raged, and he raged, with them. He’d had other plans to draw the prince out, but Prompto presented an opportunity for petty retribution and the culmination of his plans both. He knocked him from that train, and he tormented him in Gralea.

He made him shoot his own father. He taunted him. He tortured him with the enticing idea of escape, and captured him again, stringing him up like a sacrifice, for the prince to find. The boy was near broken by the end, but the prince’s sentiment managed to salvage him, and they faced forward more determined than ever.

A shame, that the outcome of the game had been long decided.

Noctis was taken into the crystal, leaving Eos without their chosen king.

Ten years of darkness would commence, in which Ardyn would reap his revenge on the world, and humanity would scavenge to survive, sectioned off in Lestallum like caged rats.

The three young men before him would separate to serve their own purpose.

And Prompto…

So young. So much like Verstael in appearance. So much potential ready to exploit.

So much more _promising_ now that Ardyn is in a lenient mood. Achieving his first major victory had put him in excellent humour, the daemons within him appeased. His mind whirls with possibilities and ideas. Ways to keep himself amused and preoccupied during the oncoming years, most involving the boy he was increasingly referring to (in his head) as his son.

He could lock him away, and drive him mad from light deprivation. Ardyn could tell the boy would crumble under social isolation, and gradually grow to enjoy Ardyn’s visits, no matter how much he loathed him.

He could try to condition him. Try to turn him against the imposter prince. He could torture him with illusions until his mind cracked, until he toiled in agony.

He could use his magic to reverse time. To revert his age. To humiliate him. How conflicted Prompto would feel, especially now he had finally gathered the wits to realise the history they shared.

Or he could simply kill him. Rid himself of the (admittedly enthralling) distraction and enjoy the years as he’d always imagined, alone and suitably satisfied with his own cunning. There was no need to continue obsessing over the child. And he _certainly was_ a child, in comparison to Ardyn. Perhaps once the boy was gone, he could finally forget about Verstael, and the sticky end he’d met. He could forget about the bizarre melancholy he felt now that his only semi-friend was gone, even though he himself had orchestrated the man’s death.

So many options.

Ardyn smirked down at the bound figure before him, enjoying the fire in those violet eyes.  “Now then, what will I do with you?”

 

* * *

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I know this ends on a cliff-hanger. I'm not opposed to the idea of writing more, but I'll just have to see what happens. I have one major story I really want to focus on when I'm not busy :)
> 
> Time for me to fade back into the void! I hope you guys enjoyed reading this, and that my interpretation of Ardyn and Verstael's relationship wasn't too strange. I can't wait to play the new DLC, although I'm still pretty disappointed about the cancellation of Episode Luna. She deserved so much better :(
> 
> Hope ya'll are having a nice day/night wherever you are! Please tell me what you thought of this, if you would like!


End file.
